Keeping Things Whole [ON HOLD]

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Gran’s back yard is huge. I mean really huge. Half of it used to be a freaking forest until my late Grandpa cleared out most of the trees and planted grass, like, fifty years ago. There’s even a little pond back there that he used to fish in, and it can be quite nice looking. But when I stagger off the back porch this morning, my foot sinks into a mud puddle and I nearly drop the milking pail.  This is ridiculous; I don’t even know how to milk a freaking cow!

When I walk into the red barn, I set the pail down by Ms. Adelaide’s pink thing. What did Gran call it? Damned if I knew. The cow moos softly, her black and white hide shuddering, and as I sit on the stool I can’t help smiling a bit.

“You ready for some milking?” I say, giving her a pat. “Better make it a good batch, Gran’s making waffles.”

 Ms. Adelaide rumbles, and I move my hands cautiously down to that pink milk-sack. What was it… udder! That’s it! …Aw, that makes it sound even nastier.

“Uhm… where do I…” I stare at it dumbly. “…Here? No, that’s not right. Oh God, this is so weird.” I bite my lip, brace myself, and start tugging at the little things that hang down and—holy shit, it works! Ms. Adelaide moos again, her tail swishing, and I milk her for fifteen minutes. The bucket fills, and I lean back and clap my hands together.

“Well, Ada, I learned something new today, didn’t I?” I stand, and she turns to me, her long eyelashes fluttering. “Are you flirting with me, girl?” I ask, stroking her long, sad face. Her wide, velvety nose twitches and I scratch her forehead. I’ve touched a cow before, now that I think about it; Dad took me to a county fair when I was seven once. I touched all sorts of things: a cow, a donkey, a goat. My hands had been so dirty and disgusting afterwards, but I was in heaven. But before now, I’ve never really been this close to anything bigger than a dog.  Ms. Adelaide’s big; not huge, but she’s wide, too, with a brass bell hanging around her neck and a little blue bow perched by her ear.

I rub her some more, her coarse, short hair meshing with my fingers, and when I reach her chest, I can feel the steady throbbing of her heart. I’ve always been better with animals than people—they don’t talk back, they don’t whine, they don’t judge.

Finally, I give her hide one last pat before stretching and moving the milking stool back to its usual place. But when I make to grab the pail, my leg suddenly gives out and I fall onto the straw-covered floor. Shit, no, what is this? Is this one of the other symptoms they were telling me about? I roll onto my back and look down towards my toes, half expecting my left leg to be entirely gone. Nope, it’s still there. I try to wiggle my toes, but no dice. I breathe in and out, trying to calm down.

“Okay leg, come on, now,” I hiss, smacking it. “I thought we were cool!” I smack it again, harder this time, and feel a little tingling. “Really? Is that all you’ve got?”

I reach over and grab one of Grandpa’s old boots that sit near the barn’s front doors. “Still being difficult, huh, leftie?” I mutter. My leg does not respond, and I presently begin hitting my shin as hard as I can with a fishing boot, all while saying, “how do you like that, huh? If you’re gonna go numb on me, then I hope you don’t mind if I do this! Take that—and that!” Another little jolt of feeling, stronger this time runs up my leg.

“Ha, that’s what I thought!” I say, “better think twice before the next time you-”

“Excuse me?”

I nearly piss myself when I hear the voice and I leap to my feet, almost falling over again. “Wahahahhmhmm, ahh, yes? What do you want?”

It’s a girl. Wait, what the hell is a girl doing outside the barn? Why is she holding a gardening hoe? Why doesn’t Gran tell me anything?!